


Pissing Cherubs

by mitzvahmelting



Series: matchjokes [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Identity Porn, Illustrated, M/M, Oral Sex, Smoking, it's identity porn but no secret identities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the third-floor outdoor terrace of an abandoned shopping mall, Joker waits for Batman.  He gets Matches instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pissing Cherubs

**Author's Note:**

> I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THIS TO BE A SERIES, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!!  
> so uh. no promises about series length or a grand old plot, okay?
> 
> BUT it is SO FUN to write matchjokes (especially with all the help from [DracoMaleficium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium)!!)
> 
> i should also mention that my version of matches is partly inspired by [Synph's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/pseuds/MissSynph) stories about matches, which are really hot and you should read them

And now, with the plan set in motion and the rain finally ceased, Joker can just _wait_ , standing out on the spacious third floor terrace of his current hideaway in the abandoned shopping mall off Route 1. He’d already plastered his image on every television set in the greater Gotham City area, explaining how the bombs worked. Disarm one, and the others go off. The only way to disable them all at once is with the master control – tucked into the pocket of Joker’s suit jacket.  He’d even made sure to get a shot of the busted up fountain in the middle of the patio, the one with the pissing cherubs, so Batman would have no trouble finding him.

The perimeter of the mall is guarded by hundreds of henchmen itching to fire a few clips into the Batwing if Batman chooses to land in the old parking lots, so Joker is sure that Batman will have the aircraft drop him on the roof of the building instead. The roof looks innocuous, but only because it is waiting for the weight of Batman’s foot to trigger the massive Rube Goldberg machine, which will torment the Dark Knight with its perfectly-executed domino effect of terror before depositing him, bound and gagged, onto the terrace where Joker stands now.

Joker had been worried that, if the rain had continued, it would ruin that moment, because Joker’s suits aren’t waterproof and he’d wanted to look presentable when Batsy arrived for their date. He is relieved that the rain has stopped, and he likes the scent of the wet concrete.  He also likes the yellow hue of the light from the almost-setting sun, because, when Batman shows up, he too will be cast in a sort of golden glow.  It’s _romantic_.

“Whatcha doin’?” lilts a deep voice from a few meters behind Joker.

Irked at the interruption, Joker pulls his pistol out of his jacket pocket and cocks it, aims at the source of the sound. He is about to just shoot this mystery henchman dead.  After all, among the criminal underworld, stupidity is _contagious,_ and Joker would rather nip this particular outbreak in the bud before it catches.  It is so awfully hard to find good help, these days.

Then he catches sight of a checker-print blazer and porn-star sunglasses and nearly drops the gun.

For a moment, Joker can only stare, and Matches Malone just stares right back at him, right down the barrel of the .22 caliber, unfazed.  They can hear the echoes of a far-off siren and the drip-drip of rain still draining from the roof.  This time, Matches has an actual cigarette hanging off his lip rather than the matchstick of his namesake, and it just makes the sight of him that much more surreal, smoke sliding out of his mouth and drifting into the damp air.

“What-” Joker’s mind clicks in the helpless manner of a fan when you block the spinning of its blades, “how - how did _you_ get here?!” Joker demands.  He uncocks the gun and shoves it back in his pocket, only partly because he wants to hide that his hand is shaking because it’s _Matches_ (and the last time he saw Matches, Joker was on his back with his legs spread.)  Joker hates the juxtaposition of that memory against the backdrop of the plan, the stunt-in-progress, the little puddles of rainwater on the terrace.

Matches furrows his brow and holds the cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, “How’d I get here? Same as you,” he shrugs, “I took the stairs.”

“But, you’re-” Joker growls, “ _you’re_ not supposed to be here. _Batman_ is supposed to be here.”

“Nah,” says Matches. The smoke swirls lazily. “I don’t think the Bat’s showin’ up. Heard he ain’t been around much, lately.”

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Joker declares, hands unconsciously forming fists, “Batman has no _choice_. If he doesn’t arrive within the next hour, people will _die,_ and Batman _hates_ when people die.”  Then, through giggles, because isn’t this _absurd_ , how hilarious that Mr. Batman arrived in the wrong _costume,_ “So, so why don’t you just _skedaddle_ and we pretend this never happened?” He makes shooing motions with his hands.

“And miss seein’ you bag the Bat?” Matches snorts, “I ain’t skedaddling nowhere, kid.  I got the best seat in the house,” and he takes another drag off the cigarette.

Joker scrunches up his face into the angriest pout he can manage. “No!” he says, because if Matches doesn’t leave then Batman will _never_ arrive, and he rushes up to Matches and, pushing him back inside and toward the stairwell, he shouts “No watching!”

Matches clamps a hand around Joker’s wrist _hard_ and blows cigarette smoke in his face. The dryness of the smoke makes Joker’s eyes water and his throat itch and he thrashes, trying to throw Matches off of him, but Matches holds forcefully and purrs, “Thought you _liked_ bein’ watched.”

“You-!” Joker chokes on the smoke, starts coughing and leverages a shoe against Malone’s stomach to finally shake his grip, stumbling backwards and away from him, “you _cretin!”_

Malone chuckles and his eyes seem hungry even through the lenses.

Joker catches his breath, then snarls at the mobster, pulling the little gizmo with the big red button out of his other pocket, raising it above his head as if to taunt Matches. “I’ll do it! I’ll set them off! Fourteen city blocks blown to _smithereens!_  Send all those kiddos to the _Chuck E. Cheese in the sky!”_

Matches quirks an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

A beat. “Well,” Joker sounds hysterical even to his own ears, and he hates it, “well aren’t you going to try to _stop_ me?!”

Malone laughs, _“Me?_ No way, kid. If there’s one thing you gotta know about Matches Malone, it’s that he don’t stick his neck out for _nobody._  Besides,” and he pulls out the switchblade non-threateningly, turning it over in his hand a bit sheepishly, “I brought a knife to a gun fight.  You’d cream me.” Matches doesn’t say _Like I creamed you_ but Joker hears it and his body feels hot with something like shame.  Matches puts away the switchblade and shrugs his shoulders to settle the blazer again.

Bewildered, Joker turns away from Matches and looks at the big red button in his hands.  “Then I suppose I’ll just…” but he hesitates.  He hesitates because what a _waste_ of good explosives that would be, to actually set them off from so far away, not close enough to see the fireworks, hear the screaming. Perhaps he should have one of his men drive him back into town to see them up close. Still, without Batman…? Disappointment creeps up bitter in his throat, and then resentment.

“Although,” says Matches.

Joker flinches, spins back around and looks at the man owlishly. “Although?”

Matches rubs his stubble thoughtfully, holding the cigarette between his knuckles, “you’ve got one of those bombs rigged up at that bodega on 5th and Warren, right?”

Joker nods.

“Well, I’ve got a contract with the owner, see? And while your bomb makes my job a helluva lot easier, it does make it kinda hard to collect on the fire insurance when the client’s brains are splattered all over the walls. So, uh,” and Matches rolls his shoulders, “why don’t you and me cut a deal?”

“A deal.”

“Yeah, a deal. You disarm the bomb at the bodega, and I’ll suck you off.”

Joker opens his mouth, then closes it again. Did Matches just…?  “I, uh. I can’t-” He coughs, because his throat has gone dry, “I can’t disable them one-by-one, remotely.”

“Really?  Huh.” Matches sucks on the cigarette thoughtfully, taking a long moment as if this is news to him, but something about his expression seems sarcastic.  Finally he shrugs and smirks at the Joker, “Well, then I guess you’ll just have to disarm them all.” _Checkmate._

Joker’s mind starts clicking again, and his heart is like _thump thump thump_ in his ears. He scowls. “Oh, no, no,” he says and points an accusatory finger at Matches, _“Batsy,_ that is _so_ unfair!”

 _“Woah_ there, Chuckles,” says Malone, holding up his hands peacefully, “Ain’t my fault you’ve got a shit remote.”

“You can’t just-!” Joker’s fingers latch into his own hair in frustration, the corner of the red button gizmo bumping against his scalp, which would be way more dangerous if the button were primed, but he hadn’t even gotten that far, “Augh! You’re so _mean!”_

“…mean.” Matches parrots, amused. He drops the cigarette to the floor and snuffs it out with the bottom of his loafers, then crosses his arms. His sunglasses reflect the orange-pink light of the progressing sunset. “Huh. Well _I’m_ not the guy who stood you up on your date. So, at least I ain’t _that_ mean.”

Joker crosses his arms to mirror Matches and just looks at the mobster, because that was a blatant lie, Malone is _exactly_ the guy who stood Joker up on his date.  Malone is Batman is Malone.  Joker knows this.  He _knows_ this.

Then, the clown glances at the cigarette extinguished on the wet pavement.  And that doesn’t make sense, right, because Batman would never smoke, and why would he take on lasting damage to his lungs just to maintain a disguise?  Of course, they are the _same person_ , Joker knows this, because he knows the Matches Malone disguise and, and the last time, when they fucked, he saw glimpses of Batman under the persona of Matches and so he knows they’re the same person.

But maybe they’re also different.

Joker gives the man a once-over, noting the checkered blazer and striped shirt, the loafers and the dark green socks and the brown trousers and the combed-over hair and the dark aviators that make him seem more powerful – all of it cast in a golden tone with the sun.  His fashion sense… it reminds Joker of himself. And that is a thought that gets all caught up tight in Joker’s throat. “How often do you smoke?” he asks Matches, finally.

“Mm. Once in a while,” and Malone’s smile is almost predatory when he says, using familiar words, _“to let off some steam.”_

Joker purses his lips and turns away from Matches, hiking his shoulders up and gritting his teeth, and finally he looks at the big red button. Explosions, he thinks. Terror and chaos, all with his face, his face on the news when they report the event, his face everywhere when they intern the dead, and it all would be Batman’s fault. His face and Batman’s face.  (But. Then he thinks of _Matches._ Matches, who doesn’t despise him. Matches, who wants him.)

“Fine.” Joker says.  He turns back around so Matches can see, and he slides open the side panel with the extra controls, and disarms the bombs.

Matches looks at the control, and then at Joker’s face, and then back again, blankly. “So, uh,” he says, “so you disarmed them?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” says Matches, mildly.

Then, all of a sudden, Matches sets his jaw, grabs the little machine right out of Joker’s hands, and with brutal force hurls it away, so it shatters against the solid wall railing at the edge of the terrace, splintering apart into so many little pieces.  Even the plastic of the button has cracked.

That. That was Batman. Joker watches with wide eyes as the iron resolve of the Batman melts back into Malone, and something hot curls in his stomach like the smoke from Malone’s cigarette.

Malone grabs him by the shoulders, fingers digging in, and he kisses Joker, open-mouthed, and Joker tilts his chin up, lets Matches lick into his mouth and claim him. He whines into the kiss. Matches tastes like ash and masculinity, sour and confident and far too much.  When Matches breaks the kiss, his eyes remain closed, and he keeps his forehead pressed against Joker’s, and he breathes hot against Joker’s mouth, “Good boy.”

He pushes Joker backwards towards the center of the terrace and indelicately rips the clown’s trousers open, slides them and the boxers down around Joker’s knees, and Joker is breathing hard, a little disoriented, and he feels the sunlight blanket his naked thighs, and then the shock of cold on his skin when Matches pushes him down to sit on the bench-height stone of the edge of the empty fountain.  The stone is still wet from the rain, and Joker is sitting on it bare, can feel its rough texture and its dampness against him and Matches is nudging his knees apart.  Joker’s trousers slide further down to his calves.

“C’mere,” says Matches, and pulls Joker forward a little so he’s closer to the edge of his seat, ass scraping against the stone. Joker is getting hard, in his bemused state, because of Malone’s proximity, his control, the ghost of his breath against Joker’s thigh as he situates them, as he himself kneels on the wet pavement, soaking his trousers through at the knee and all down his shins.  He takes Joker’s hands and guides them to rest at his sides, against the edge of the stone. “Keep your hands there, okay? Don’t move.”

“Okay.”

Matches looks up at Joker, clear blue eyes peering at the clown above the wire rim of the sunglasses.  Like he’s assessing Joker, making sure that what he’s doing is alright.

Joker breathes through his mouth and stares back at Matches and he can barely. He can barely focus, and his face feels hot, and he can, he can _see his eyes,_ Malone’s eyes, Batman’s eyes, so blue it hurts. Matches smiles sideways at him, then takes hold of Joker’s cock.

Joker whines at the contact, instinctively. Malone’s hand is so large, rough and warm and _feelssogood_ and he’s not even fully grasping Joker’s cock, just holding, to direct, because – and then it’s Malone’s mouth, hot hot as he kisses the tip, licks with the flat of his tongue, messy wide, and Joker could _scream,_ and Matches mouths at him, sucks on the head, his thumb rubbing a sharp line down the underside of Joker’s cock, and then Matches pulls off, eyes bright, and Joker is shivering.

“Not so bad, huh?” Matches says, thumb drawing a circle at that spot, and Joker holds on to the stone wall, and the sun is setting lower, reds and oranges, and Joker looks down at his own cock, stiff and leaking in Malone’s hand, and it looks so bright in the light, and Joker exhales tightly and blinks.

Then, Matches goes down again, his lips, his tongue, lower and lower and Joker groans, shuts his eyes as he feels his cock press against and through into the tightness of Malone’s throat, and abruptly Malone’s free hand clamps down on Joker’s thigh with a slap, gripping the meat of his thigh as he swallows around Joker’s cock, and Joker feels like the whole world is swallowing him up, and the edges of his vision are blurry, and it’s just Matches, so warm and hot and tight sucking him, sucking him, and Joker’s fingers scrabble against the stone where he is supposed to hold on.

A lewd popping noise, when Matches pulls off again. And now he’s honest to god smirking up at the Joker, even though he’s got spit all over his mouth, shiny in his beard. But it seems that Joker must look even more disheveled. “Look at you,” Matches says, and whistles. His voice sounds hoarse from the work his throat has done. The hand that had been on Joker’s thigh lifts to caress his cheek.  Joker’s breath comes short, like panting, and he keeps his hands by his sides on the stone, and his knees shiver and Matches is touching him, touching him. Matches quirks his head to the side. “Way more fun than killin’ people, right?” and Joker just whines at him.  Malone’s hand starts moving up and down Joker’s cock, slow, but his grip is so firm that it makes Joker squirm against the wet stone, and Malone says, “Yeah, see, I don’t see no appeal in that killin’ stuff.  Maybe if I was makin’ money off of it, but just for its own sake? Now, why would I be spendin’ all my free time schemin’ to kill somebody when I could be gettin’ my cock sucked?”

To punctuate his point, Matches gives the tip another sloppy kiss, nudging at the slit with his tongue, and Joker makes a very undignified noise and he can’t keep still can’t keep still and Malone’s hand steadies him, holding his hip in place.

When Matches sits up again, he sucks his tongue like he’s savoring the taste, and then he says, as he strokes Joker’s cock, “And your idea of fun ain’t so different from mine, is it. Wouldn’t you rather spend your time gettin’ your rocks off at Cobblepot’s club?  Practically _beggin’_ strange men to touch you.”

Joker doesn’t mean to say anything as he stares down at Matches, sunlit and golden between his legs, but he says “Oh God,” by accident, treacherous voice, and he squirms and he feels like he’s melting and everything is sex. And then he says, _“Oh_ _God,”_ because Matches tucks his face lower and his stubble scratches against the sensitive inside of Joker’s thigh and then Matches sucks Joker’s balls into his mouth and everything goes topsy-turvy. “M-M-” a sharp gasp for air _“Matches,_ Matches, oh God,” and Matches sucks hard, mouthing at Joker’s balls and Joker cries out.

Matches hums against Joker’s sensitivity, then sits up again, “Or maybe,” he says, as if there had been no intermission to his conversation, “you’d rather spend your free time with me.” He starts pumping Joker’s cock in earnest, and he leans up to kiss Joker quick on the mouth, tastes sour, tastes like Joker, and Joker is shaking.  “Whaddya think, kid? Think you’d rather spend your free time with me? Spreadin’ them legs for me,” and Matches uses his elbows to nudge Joker’s legs further apart, “sittin’ pretty on my cock?”

Joker chokes out a moan and his eyes are shut and watering and Matches kisses him again, pumping his cock, demanding and rough and, and he’s trying to warn Matches, warn him that he’s going to fall apart, that, oh God, that he’s going to come, but Matches keeps kissing him, kissing him, barely letting him breathe, and Joker is drowning in it, and his fingers are going numb against the stone. And Matches is becoming incoherent too, because he kisses Joker, and he says “So pretty, you’d look,” and another kiss, “so pretty,” kiss, “so pretty on my,” kiss, “cock, my little,” kiss, _“cockslut…”_

And Joker comes. He shoots all over his shirt with a noise that sounds way more primal than human, and Matches traps the sound with his mouth, kissing Joker, kissing him through the aftershocks, touching him everywhere.  

Joker is shaking. Malone is caressing him, kissing his cheek, stroking down his back as Joker catches his breath, and Malone is whispering, “So good, so good…” and Joker shivers and nuzzles against the man’s shoulder and

He still can’t believe this happened

but Matches is holding him and, eventually, helps Joker back into his boxers and pants, buttons Joker’s trousers for him because Joker is

thinking

and Malone takes Joker’s fingers off the stone of the fountain and guides them to Malone’s shoulders, and then. Joker looks around and everything is cast in shadow, because the sun has finally dipped below the horizon, and, oh yes, Malone is holding him, right, he has his legs wrapped around Malone’s waist and his arms around Malone’s neck and Malone is holding him and they’re walking inside, toward the stairs.  Malone is carrying him down the stairs.

“Wait,” Joker mutters, “wait, I can’t-” and he shakes the afterglow with the urgency of his anxiety.

“Hush,” says Matches, “I got you.”

“No, wait,” and Joker squirms to get his feet back on the floor, at the bottom of the stairwell in the dark, and Matches lets him. “My men are outside,” he says. _They can’t see me like this, with you._

“No, they’re not,” says Matches.

“What?” Joker can only see Malone’s vague outline in the dark.

“When I got here, I told them to go home.”

 _“What?”_ Joker shoves open the exit and looks frantically to the left and to the right in the twilight, but his men are gone. Matches steps out of the stairwell and onto the grass behind him, and Joker whirls on him, “What do you _mean,_ ‘you told them to go home?!’”

“Said it was orders from you, kid.  They ain’t all that smart.”

“But,” Joker stutters in disbelief, “but how did you know any of this would end up happening? How did you plan so far ahead as to…?”

“Well,” Matches says, and sucks on his teeth, considering, “Well, I didn’t know nothin’ for _sure,_ exactly, but,” he rubs his stubble with one hand and looks at Joker with his head cocked to the side, “I figured it was a pretty safe bet that _Batman_ wouldn’t be showin’ up.”

“…heh,” says Joker, after a moment of silence, as it hits him. And then, then he can’t help himself, and it grows, and he’s laughing, and it hurts and he’s shutting his eyes, but this is _funny,_ oh, oh this is funny.

Matches pulls him close and kisses him over the laughter, and Joker is still laughing, but Matches is kissing him and it is quite hard to laugh when one is being kissed. Matches is smiling, and there’s a little bit of an edge to it, and he says, “Let me take you back to my place.”

“Your place?   _You_ have a…” Joker giggles, “a place?”

“Everybody’s got a place.” Matches says, and he lifts Joker into his arms again, and Joker cooperates because it feels nice, and it’s like he’s flying, or falling, and lots of things are like that with Matches.  There’s an old Cadillac in mediocre condition parked in the closest spot on the lot, and that must be Malone’s car.  “And I even got a bed. Lemme tell you, that’s gonna be way more comfortable than fucking on concrete. Or stripper poles.”

“Oh, no,” Joker says, “not tonight.” And Matches sets him down on the passenger side of the car and opens the door for him, and Joker slips inside, saying, “The little clown is down for the evening.”

Matches shuts the passenger door and walks around the front to open the driver’s side and slide in himself. He looks at Joker out of the corner of his eye. “Is that a challenge?”

“Unbelievable,” says Joker, grinning despite himself.

The car hums to life, and Matches buckles in, and they’re coasting out of the lot when Matches says “Oh, hold on,” and holds the wheel with one hand while the other fishes around in his blazer pocket.  He tosses a matchbook to Joker. “Would you gimme one of those?”

Joker blinks at the little package, and then looks at Matches. Matches without the match, without the cigarette.  Wonders how much of him is Batman.

Joker pulls a matchstick out of the package and gently, just before they turn onto the main road, he brings it to Malone’s lip – an exceedingly intimate gesture - and Malone takes it into his mouth and prods it, and then he says, “Thanks. Feel naked without it.”

 

 

commissioned illustration, art by the unbelievably talented [toluenesister](http://archiveofourown.org/users/toluenesister/pseuds/toluenesister)

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey so what did you think?
> 
> (also if anyone else wants to jump on the matchjokes train you DEFINITELY SHOULD! this is a FUN ship!)


End file.
